Roundabout Spirits
by A Shinx
Summary: Daryl is a washed up Lucario actor with a passion for dance and his recently deceased lover and co-actress, Deana, a Braixen. He hasn't handled her passing well. He's given a chance to re-ignite his career but his past isn't making it easy. Can he dance with his demons and lower the curtain on this chapter of his life? M for alcohol use, suggestive themes, and strong language.


Roundabout Spirits

Daryl never was a fan of the morning time, and the somewhat recent addition of hangovers was pushing this Lucario towards being a hater. A few resourceful messenger rays of sunlight snuck through seams in the messy aluminum foil plastering the windows and delivered triumphant news of the dawn's arrival over his eyes. Dreadful.

Ever since the spiriting away of Deana, it was rare for him to even witness the morning at all. Alcohol was rather persuasive in that sense, and Daryl had no shortage of it strewn in colorful glass bottles across his desk and bedside table. Stacks of paper, trinkets, and clothes littered his room like bullet casings forgotten in a warzone.

Daryl's gaze, half-lidded, alighted upon a photograph on his bedside table, propped up against a worn, silver flask. The picture was of a Braixen. She sat next to a window with a book in her lap, looking towards the camera with a gaze as warm as embers.

Daryl thought about getting out of bed. The thought crossed his mind a few times. There was no shortage of things to do. Having satisfied himself knowing that he had at least considered it, Daryl yawned, turned away from the offending rays and promptly spiraled back into dreamless sleep.

* * *

"I need to get my shit together," mumbled Daryl, as he brushed away enough clutter to make room for his groceries on the dinner table. Sitting down heavily with a sigh to catch his breath, he tossed the last weeks' worth of post on to the dinner table. The neighbors were getting a bit leery about the overflowing mailbox.

Uncorking his poison for the evening, a foul bourbon, he dutifully refilled his flask with a careful eye before setting to work sorting his mail into ever growing piles. "Maybe I'll open… that pile… later."

Crunching spitefully on a carrot he bought as part of the new "get your shit together diet" he started on a whim two hours ago, he noticed a large manila envelope with familiar handwriting. The phrase, 'FUCKING READ THIS ONE' was scrawled across the address in bold, red marker. With a roll of the eyes, swipe of a claw and snap of the wrist to withdraw the packet within, Daryl scanned over the cover letter from his agent.

Nothing unusual. The usual preamble about professionalism, the detour into importance of communication, _"Blah, blah, blah_," the Lucario thought to himself. His temper flared suddenly at the bolded text at the end of the introductory pleasantries.

**"As a final, written notice, further non-compliance with your contract which mandates at least ONE project per year will be met with termination and blacklisting."**

Written in the margins in a softer gel ink: "Look, I'm sorry. But I have to follow rules and the execs are getting mad. Please give this a try? You're the only one who can do this part right."

His temper cooled just as quickly, doused by a shot of liquor. Rubbing between his eyes with a sigh and a cough, the burn never really got much easier, he finished reading the letter.

Daryl's agent explained in short that he had found a job for Daryl – one to help him re-ignite his career and get him moving onward again. It was a theatrical production that just so happened to involve several elaborate dance sequences. Romance story. Your usual guy and gal flirting, plenty of romance, a little heartbreak… and of course, a seductive, _sexy_ dance finale. _"Ugh…"_

Daryl flipped through the pages of the script idly for some time and read over the finale choreography in detail. He felt a twist in his gut like a cork puller into a fresh bottle. He recognized the choreography. It was theirs. He turned his eyes to the cold, dark fireplace behind him and for a moment envisioned it ablaze in a memory of him and Deana twirling and flowing in dance, christening a dance that was intimately theirs. It was their signature dance.

Lost in reverie, his hold on the script loosened just enough to let slip a photograph that was tucked into the script. Falling down face-up in front of him, Daryl was startled by the sight of a ghost. The photograph was a picture of the dancer that Daryl would be working with, and she bore striking resemblance to Deana.

"Is this some sort of sick joke?" muttered Daryl, angrily brushing the photograph aside and knocking some mail on to the floor in the process. Standing up somewhat unsteadily, aided by a quick swig of the flask, Daryl took a few strides into the living room and tossed the script on to the couch. He knew the dance by heart.

Tucking the flask into his inner coat pocket, he tenderly withdrew the photograph of Deana and set it on the mantle. "I know…" muttered Daryl, wounded dog he was, as he gazed at the photo. _"You'd want me to be a… professional about this."_ Her eyes seemed to respond, "Yes."

With a resigned sigh, Daryl straightened up his posture and took the first position, offering his paw to dance with a practice partner that was not there. He began to fall into the rhythm of an imaginary orchestra and moved smoothly across the floor in twirls and trained steps, but quickly found himself facedown against the floor, tripped up on liquor and clothes strewn across the floor.

Dragging himself up angrily and rubbing the ache from the crash away, he angrily pulled out his flask and caught a look at his fury reflected in the shiny steel.

_"Drunk, lazy piece of fucking…" _he thought angrily to himself, the thoughts trailing away as he lifted the flask to his lips to drink. He felt a strange, unnatural resistance in his arm as he lifted the flask, almost like something wouldn't let him pour any further. He hesitated, then committed: the bottom of the flask slowly raising its gaze to the ceiling as the sting of whiskey lulled Daryl to peace in place of the stinging tears that could not come.

* * *

Tucking his sunglasses into his coat pocket, Daryl squinted and ignored the throbs of pain in his head as he took heavy, slow steps up the three stairs leading to the dance center doors. Resting his paw on the worn, brass handle, he made a silent, fruitless vow to nobody in particular that he would stop drinking. Eventually. Grief had already robbed him of much of his will, and liquor was hungrily gulping down whatever was left of it. _"Eh… you get credit for trying."_

The center was unusually busy that day. The sound of music and the tapping of feet reverberated down the halls and all manner of Pokémon scurried, walked and floated in and out of doors and up and down stairs. The sound of tap-tap-tap dancing on the floors above sounded out like sharp rain. Daryl was startled by a soft squeeze on the arm from someone on his side.

"How have you been, Daryl?" said a Lopunny with a gentle voice - soft and airy like sheets drying on a line. "It's been a while. The crew misses you… you know?"

"Ah…" said Daryl, putting on a smile quickly, "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't feeling better." Daryl knew his haggard eyes and appearance spoke volumes more to the eyes of a good friend.

The Lopunny's nose twitched and sniffed softly. The Lopunny squeezed again, a bit more firmly as if to be reassuring. "I know it's not easy. We all miss her too."

Daryl found himself unsure as how to reply aside from a slow nod and making eyes at the door at the end of the hall. The Lopunny seemed to ignore this and pressed onward.

"Come spend time with us after the rehearsal. We're here for you, you know? All of us."

"I'm a little busy afterwards tonight…"

"This weekend then. Let's go to the bistro like we used to."

"I'm really busy though. Practicing at home, working on a new… hobby?"

The Lopunny's nose twitched and sniffed softly again, and then once more. They then placed a knowing paw to the Lucario's chest softly. Daryl took a sharp breath in and held it. The paw was pressed right up against the pocket containing his flask. The bunny's paws always had a way of melting through boundaries and bubbles. Feeling the liquid inside his new hobby slosh, he realized the flask was already half empty.

"We've been worried, Daryl. When you get stressed out, you've always shut down and hid away from everyone. We want to help but you have to let us help you."

Daryl exhaled slowly and shifted his heels back. "You know I want to see you all. Just got to find the time. I'm alright, I promise."

The Lopunny gazed deeply into his eyes and communicated clear doubt. "I miss being able to ask Deana what's _really_ going on with you," the Lopunny explained with a sad, frustrated bite to their voice. They bounded back lightly on to their toes like a spring before starting to hop away, quickly disappearing around a corner.

Daryl could feel the tips of his ears burning. Deana would have whacked him on the snout with her stick. He could hear her saying, _"Bad puppy! Speak!"_ like she often did. A whimper caught in his throat. The halls were strangely quiet all of a sudden and he was starkly aware of how anxious and dirty the lies made him feel. Fumbling for his flask, he took a large, sanitizing swig out of it and quickly shuffled down the hall. He kept his head low and ignored anyone else who called out greetings as his thoughts swam and jumped in and out of consciousness.

Nearing the double-doors to studio room twenty-four, Daryl found himself taking rapid cha-cha steps back as the doors exploded outward like a break-in scene from a cheesy cop film. Coming on to the scene with a flourish was another familiar face.

"Daryllll…so good to see you!" The sleazy words slithered out and were revolting to the ear. The speaker approached close, flicking Daryl's nose with a digit before circling like a shark about to feast.

The Zoroark stood a pace just out of Daryl's reach. His long fur was neatly groomed and tied with little jewels that reflected the ceiling lights above. He stood with his weight on one hind paw and a claw to his chin as he surveyed Daryl with jet-black eyes. Daryl hated those eyes. They stripped and scoured him callously like a hose down before one is handed an orange jumpsuit.

"Have you ever, you know, _walked_ through doors? Or is breaking through doors the closest you'll get to a breakout role?"

"Tssssssk," hissed the Zoroark, spitting that "s" out with a scowl one would have after mistakenly sipping spoiled milk. "I happen to have a _professional_ form of amnesia." His expression melted back into the kind of cloying smile whose intent is betrayed by dead eyes. "To think that one day I'd be practicing in _your _studio. My… I only ever dreamed of it."

"You were practicing?"

"I was! I _might_ have landed a lead role!"

Daryl blinked and gazed at the sign outside the studio doors. It clearly read the name of the upcoming production Daryl had been studying in the last couple weeks.

"What production?"

"You just read the sign, didn't you? That's the one."

"Yes, but_ I_ was cast as lead role for it."

"You were and still are the lead!"

"Then what are you doing here? Last time I checked: you weren't me."

"I could be."

"…Pardon?"

The Zoroark shimmered like a desert mirage and for a moment Daryl saw his own likeness before him. 'Daryl' blew a kiss at Daryl and blinked back into being Zachariah blowing a kiss at Daryl. Daryl quickly straightened his collar and tucked the corner of his shirt. A mirror was a mirror.

"I never thought I'd see the day you'd take aim at me."

"I did my time hunting small game, Daryl. I want more."

No one could ever prove it, but rumors abound that Zachariah's climb from mediocre backup dancer to rising star had rather seedy origins. Accidents on set, actors having sudden changes of heart about acting as a career… Deana once recounted a production many years ago where she saw Zachariah step out of the director's office late at night, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief. The next morning, Deana found herself standing center stage with Zachariah, her former, bewildered dance partner newly relegated to up center as a backup. She recalled Zachariah kept stepping on her toes, but that was less troubling than his wicked smile.

"I called your agent up. And honestly, I'm doing you a _favor_. There is a _lot_ riding on this production and I hear you've been a flake lately. That's the truth." The Zoroark pointed a claw at himself, "I'm insurance, Daryl."

"You can steal my looks, but you can't move like me."

"What good is your appearance if you don't appear with it?"

"Fine, whatever. Show up every day. You're just wasting your time, Zach."

"I do intend to show up every day. Do you?"

"Excuse me?

"You reek of liquor."

There was silence. It became crushing.

"I had lunch with a friend before I got here." A complete lie.

"What's your friend's name? Sherry? Brandy? Did you have breakfast with her too? Maybe you'll have dinner together as well. Deana would be glad to see you getting over her and back into the dating game so soon."

Daryl flushed with rage and could feel his aura darkening. "I hear you're a connoisseur as well. Soft, delicate palate. Mmm… all about that _mouthfeel_ with you, huh? Who's your next private tasting with?"

With another shimmer, Daryl suddenly saw Deana standing in front of him. She spoke to him. "I can't imagine how hard it must be being here again what with me being, you know, _dead_ and all. How long has it been? Do you still smell my perfume on our sheets? Probably smells better than the maggot shit that's probably still dripping off my bon-"

When Daryl's eyes refocused, his ears stopped ringing and the aura around him dissipated he broke out into a cold sweat. He found himself on the ground, fist squarely buried into the floor next to Zachariah's head. They had burst through the swinging double doors and into the studio.

"Daryl? What the… get off him!"

Daryl quickly scooted off Zachariah who seemed rather stunned and content to lay there. Daryl noticed his flask had fallen out of his pocket in front of him along with his picture of Deana. He grabbed the flask quickly and suddenly felt his wrist locked in a vice grip and the flask wrenched away from him.

He heard the sound of the threaded screws aching as the flask opened, followed by a single inquisitive sniff.

"Johannes, your boy is _fucking_ _wasted_."

"Director, I…" Daryl's agent was a tired looking Hypno. Daryl's mind briefly flashed with a psychic image of himself being spit roasted over an open fire. Courtesy of his agent, of course.

"JOHANNES."

"Look, let's go to your office for a second and chat, we can sort this ou-."

"I'm not running a dive bar. YOU told ME that…"

Daryl sat up on his knees and shook his head clear. He winced as the flask came clattering back to his knees. Stagehands scattered like Barboach. One ran off to fetch blood pressure medication, another to fetch water, another ran off to seem busy and avoid the director. Zachariah scooted backwards and gave Daryl a wicked look that might as well have stripped him nude.

Daryl's ears flattened and he bit his lip as he stared down at the flask emptily. It was a bit dented now and in a little puddle of liquor owing to having not been screwed shut. Suddenly, Deana's gentle, loving visage was upon the bottle's shiny reflection. Her eyes enveloped him in warmth and he gazed longingly. She spoke to him.

"Daryl? Are you alright?"

Snapped out of his love, he looked up to see a Braixen pick up the flask and screw it shut before pressing it into his paws. It wasn't Deana, but this Braixen looked just like her.

"Are you alright?" The Braixen spoke again. She ran a delicate paw over the picture of Deana but did not pick it up. Her compassion was gentle and settled upon him like raindrops and sunlight peeking through scattered clouds.

"Dea… I…"

"He'll be fine, he's just had a bit much!" came Zachariah who had put his paw on the Braixen's shoulder. "He just hasn't been himself since… you know. Regardless, it wouldn't be right to hold a little drink against him. No need to involve the police."

Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl spied Johannes walking the director to his office, quietly fishing a coin on a string out of his coat pocket. The director was already looking a bit sedated, though fuming nonetheless. Johannes shot a glance at Daryl that simultaneously communicated, "I hate you, I'll fix this, you owe me a raise, and _get the fuck out_," all at the same time.

Daryl obliged. Stuffing the flask into his coat and snatching up the picture of Deana, he quickly turned about and stepped through the wide-open double doors. A few steps turned into a jog through the halls, through the front door the jog turned into a leap down the steps and then a sprint away. Doors opened, passerby parted, traffic lights changed and the wind seemed to heed his every step as he ran as if by magic. He wore his fear and shame like an invisible cloak over his shoulders that trailed and unfurled in his wake as he fled.

Ran as he did, the phantom sound of his name chased him. He could never escape.

_Daryl… this voice was full of compassion. He denied it. He ran._

_Daryl… this voice was full of judgment. It plagued him. He drank._

_Daryl… this voice was full of love. He denied it. He ran._

_Daryl… this voice was full of hate. It plagued him. He drank._

_Daryl… this voice… _


End file.
